


Sanguinem Delusion

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creepy, Halloween, Hallucinations, Horror, Humor, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Illusions, M/M, Mild Gore, Pre-Relationship, Protective Derek, Shameless Stiles, Short, SterekSpooks, Witches, eyebrow jokes, mild spoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty minutes ago, Stiles found blood on the front steps of the Hale house, got a super bad feeling all the way down to his toes, and ran off into the woods like an idiot. He didn't even have a weapon, or common sense enough to call someone for backup. He just saw blood, and ran.</p><p>Towards the danger.</p><p>As usual.</p><p>[ With Art ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguinem Delusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigertatze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigertatze/gifts).



> So This hasn't really been edited, sorry. But here's a little spoopy for you.

 

 

                                                                 

* * *

 

 

  
The first thing he wants to ask is probably rude, or so his Dad's voice in the back of his head tells him.

_Don't say it, Stiles._

But, well, his curiosity has always been stronger than his filters, and he lets the question fly.

"So, I had a question about your eyebrows—"

"Shut. Up. Stiles."

"—do they get shaved off in werewolf fury, then grow back again?" He continues, ignoring the growl and the rattling of chains that tells him just how much Derek might actually want to attack him right now. Because those chains  _had_  to hurt, being infused with Wolfsbane and all.

"Or better yet, do they migrate to your cheeks?" He continues, and he's still not looking at Derek when he growls. It's a little hard when he's chained up, too. “Actually, that explains a lot. You're just not manly enough to grow mutton chops like Scott, you have to steal the hair from your eyebrows."

"When we get out of here, i'm going to drag you to the top of a tree, tie you up, and leave you there for the vultures to eat."

"So descriptive."

"I would go into details, but knowing you, you'd faint."

Stiles makes a face, and tilts his head around the beam he was chained to. He can just see Derek's leather jacket, tossed aside when the witches decided that he needed to show more skin before he died. It was a thing, apparently. Death was too good for those still clothed in at least %80 of their clothing.

Wait, does that mean Stiles will live? Because he's at %100 here.

"Why are you even here, Stiles?"

And wasn't that the question? Not a better question than the eyebrow conundrum, but a decent one all the same. He doesn't, exactly, have an answer.

Because thirty minutes ago, Stiles found blood on the front steps of the Hale house, got a super bad feeling all the way down to his toes, and ran off into the woods like an idiot. He didn't even have a weapon, or common sense enough to call someone for backup. He just saw blood, and ran.

Towards the danger.

As usual.

Fucking Derek, this is  _his_  fault.

“Well, maybe if  _someone_  didn't get kidnapped to play strip poker all the time."

There's a huff that could be laughter or distain, before Derek replies, "trust me, there were no card games."

"Noooo, but they stripped you and poked at you."

"Shut up."

"So, about those eyebrows—"

The chains really sounded like they were going to break soon, and hey, that's not a bad idea!

Stiles lifts his butt off the floor, an crab walks as far as he can without dislocating anything. The chains pull on his wrists, but they’re not going to do much more than bruise him. Moving finally lets him see Derek, strung up on some kind of bed frame thing, looking pretty angry and shitty all around. Maybe mocking wasn't such a good idea?

"Go back to the other side," Derek grunts at him. "No one wants to see that."

Nope, mocking is the  _best_  idea.

"Hey, at least i'm human," he sighs, shaking his head in grave disappointment. Of course, Derek just sneers at that, the puny, weak human. Why be proud of that, right?

"I mean, i'm not the 200 pound muscle-wolf locked up with some flimsy metal. That's just pathetic, man. All time low."

"It's Wolfsbane," Derek reminds him darkly, pulling on the chains to prove his point. Which, it does, because his skin starts making a kind of sizzling noise and it smells like—gross.

"Yeah, but  _Scott_  can push through a circle like it's nobody's business," Stiles returns, putting on his best drawl. "I guess that's just the perks of being a True Alpha."

Growling, the chains rattle again, and metal screams a warning at him. But, it's not good enough. Not yet.

"I really don't know why anyone kidnaps you, dude, it's not like anyone's going to come save your ass," he tries, and yep, he's ignoring the acid-burn of guilt crawling up his throat. Derek can probably hear the lie with his heart, but maybe if he gets the guy worked up enough, he’ll miss it and just keep breaking those chains.

But, no, Derek’s weirdly calm all of a sudden, and instead of yelling and growling, he softly says, ” _You_  did."

Stiles goes very still, and focuses hard on the leather jacket, instead of Derek. The thing's got blood on it from the initial attack, probably some serious scratches, too. And Derek  _hates_  it when his jacket gets damaged, you can just tell. He gets all quiet and almost pouty when something happens to it, and it’s just a thing Stiles notices about him. One of those things—like the fact that Derek loves New York Style Cheesecake to the point of making really inappropriate, orgasmic sounds, or that he bites the side of his thumb when he thinks no ones paying attention during meetings because he's actually freaking out a little under all that glare, or that Stiles once caught him shoving four marshmallows into his mouth at once and those chipmunk teeth with puffed up cheeks had Stiles on the floor laughing his soul out... because it was so  _cute_ , but laughter-induced death was better than blurting  _that_  out.

So, yeah, Stiles saw blood—it could have been anyone's blood, honestly—and he ran off to save Derek's ass. Or, at least, attempt to before he got kidnapped himself.

"Y-yeah, well..." He stammers, embarrassed for at least ten different reasons. "Someone has—had to."

There's a long silence, where Stiles refuses to acknowledge how that sounded, before Derek's growling voice is back to complaining again.  

"Why's it always you, though?" He sighs, somehow sounding way more disappointed than Stiles had managed to fake. Rude.

"Next time I'll leave you to your poker buddies," Stiles snaps, crab walking his way out of sight again. "I hear they're a hoot. Great for a wicked good time. Witch–ever."

"..."

Stiles scowls harder, because he can just see Derek's stupid, unimpressed face in his mind, with the eyebrows all the way up near his hair. Stupid.

"Did you just use 'whichever' for a witch pun?"

"Shut up."

“Out of all the things you could have—“

“Shut up!”

Didn't they just do this, only Stiles was the one getting being told to shut up?

My, how the tables have turned.

Actually, literally and figuratively, because the witches come back after that—probably called by the bad puns—and start stripping off his layers of shirts, and now he's on a metal table with wires stuck to him while Derek growls from across the room.

"I feel like I should say something about this change of events, but i'm kind of running out of material as fast as my clothes, guys."

Derek just snarls another, "Let him go," which he's had on repeat since they dragged Stiles off the floor and jabbed him with something.

The witch to Stiles' left snorts, and gives Derek a deeply incredulous look. "Did you expect us to say, ' _okay, sure, because you asked,_ ’ and just let him go?"

Stiles grins, because he kind of likes her for that. She made a funny.

Stiles also screams, because she flips the switch and fucking electrocutes him, and he takes it back, she's the  _worseeverohmygodmakeitstop._

Derek shouts and other useless, "Stop it!"

"Okay," she says, and does it again.

Stiles can't actually hear much over his own screams, which are horrible and embarrassing—but mostly horrible. Has anyone actually listened to their own screams before? It's horrible.

And because he's busy screaming, and writhing around on the table, he almost misses the roar, and the crack of metal shackles being ripped apart. He also doesn’t really notice the first two screams of witches meeting the Eyebrow-Less Wonder's claws.

"Stiles!"

He doesn't miss that.

"... 'erek?" He manages, trying to get his eyes to focus on the face looming over him. It gets easier when the face becomes glorious pecks _right above him, holy god, thank you!_

He has this crazy urge to lean up and lick one of them, but he doesn't get a chance because Derek's a jerk and—oh, he's freeing him. Never mind. What a good guy.

"S'good guy," he murmurs out loud, trying to give Derek a pat on the head. Why he thinks he can reach his head, who knows. He ends up awkwardly patting Derek's stomach area before the guy lifts him up off the table, yanks Stiles’ sweatshirt over his head, and tries to get him to walk.

Funny story... He can't.

"S'not working," Stiles whines, wishing he could whine more manly-like. His rep was such dirt right now. "I can't."

Derek’s grip shifts to his waist, and urges him onward, "You can and you will."

Stiles tries, but his legs are noodles. Yucky noodles.

And now he's giggling, fuck.

"Did they fry your brain completely?" Derek mutters.

"Probably lost… half my brain cells just now."

"Keep that up and you're going run out soon."

Stiles digs his chin into Derek's shoulder and breathes into the man's ear, "was that an... almost-compliment? An Insultiment? A complisult?”

"It means you're nearly out of brain cells already."

"Mean..." Stiles pouts, and stumbles up the stairs with Derek's hand pushing into his back. He's doing okay, actually, even if he can't really feel his legs and his head is filled with angry hornets.

He's doing fine until they get outside, and he realizes they're miles and miles away from anywhere he can lay down and shake off the rest of that electricity or maybe sleep. Sleep was good.

"Just drop me in that pile of leaves over there," he grumbles, leaning his full weight against Derek for just a minute. He just needed a minute.

Derek asks, "How did you even get here?"

"I ran— _Walked_. I walked here from the Hale house."

Pausing, Derek looks over his shoulder at the hut thing they just came out of, his lips tilting down into a scowl. He doesn’t even ask why Stiles was at the Hale house to begin with—which is good because he has no answer for that yet—and whatever conclusion he just came to is all over his face, but apparently he’s not going to share.

"What? Come on, don't hide things now," Stiles complains, turning and stumbling, and being generally ungraceful just to get a look at the ugly little house. He doesn't see anything there, just ugly hut thing filled with mean people. Er, dead, mean people.

"Oh, if this about the bodies, we can take care of that later, dude.” He narrows his eyes at him. “But we're  _not_  using my jeep this time, got it? No blood on baby. No guts in my—"

"You couldn't have walked here." And there's Derek, jumping topics as usual. “We’re no where near the preserve. I would have noticed this," he says, gesturing to the house with a pinched expression, like its entire existence insults him.

But he has a point, because Stiles remembers running, like wheezing and nearly dying was in his future kind of running. He jumped over fallen logs, he darted between trees, and—how was it he knew where to go again?

He saw blood, he ran. He saw random drops of blood at the Hale house, and took off after Derek without even thinking about it. He ran for... He ran...

"Uh," he begins nervously, "I think we've been whammied. Or I've been whammied."

He's kind of afraid to blink, now, because what if none of this is real? What if he's alone—alone and whammied is even worse, because Derek is big and strong in ways Stiles is not, and possibly not  _real_.

Derek, or fake Derek, flicks his face and growls, "Stop that," before forcing Stiles to turn away from the hut and start walking again. Which anyone could do, hallucination or not, but it causes a sort of chain reaction of feelings inside him that end up with the formation of a grin on his face while he limps along. He probably looks like an idiot.

Derek gets one look at him, and goes all pickle faced again. Like Stiles grinning is just the worse thing that's ever happened to him.

"Stop that, too."

"I'm not hurting anyone by smiling."

"You're hurting my eyes."

Stiles sighs, and straightens out as much as he can. Who wants to lean on a jerk, anyway? No one, that's who. He can totally walk on his own.

His noodle-legs say otherwise, nearly sending him face first into a tree.

Derek grunts out another, "Stop that," and hauls him back again.

Which makes Stiles sigh, and let Derek do what he wants. If he wants Stiles leaning on him, who is he to complain? If he wants his hand plastered to Stiles' hip, so be it. Not complaining, that’s what he was doing. He would take this chance to enjoy a little Derek snuggling without ruining it.

Ten minutes of stumbling along, and Stiles is complaining again. But, hey, he has a good reason.

"I've tripped over this log already," he says, dragging Derek to a stop. "This  _exact_  log."

"Stiles," Derek begins like an old man, exasperated and bitter. "Stop making excuses to sit down, and let's—"

"Dude, I left a mark on it." He points with a shoe, nearly toppling them both over when his leg decides 'that's uncool to put all your weight on me, i'm a noodle.'  

Anyway, stumbling aside, Derek actually looks at where he's pointing, and some of his incredulous glaring turns into worry.

"You're sure you left that there?"

"I remember my shoe almost getting stuck, so yeah, that's mine."

"It could just look... Very similar."

"Or you could just  _trust_  me, and admit that we're walking in a loop, which is funny—not funny because I know for a fact that we went in one direction and took no right handed turns.”

Derek looks like he's all ready to get into that 'I don't trust anyone' speech, but maybe something in Stiles' expression stops him. Maybe he doesn't trust him, and that sucks—a lot—but he does seem to know when to shut up and not be a dick when they're in imminent danger.

Which, they might be, if the way the sky suddenly gets dark is any indication. It just sort of... Stops being day, and there's stars and a moon, and everything.

Stiles looks around them and gasps, "Holy shit! Oh—holy shit, what the hell is this?"

"Magic," Derek growls, ever so helpful.

Stiles whips his head around, squinting through the dark for any sign of the supposed-to-be-dead witches. "Magic? Are you fucking... how the hell does  _magic_  make the sun go down? That's impossible."

"It didn't..." Derek replies, looking around as well. At least he can see, with his stupid wolf-eyes. "At least, I don't think it did."

"So what just happened, because I’m pretty sure the sun just literally went down out of no where—and weren't they  _dead_? The witches, I mean. They were dead, right?"

Derek—the asshole—shrugs and pushes Stiles on to the log with no effort at all. 

"Stay."

"Beg," Stiles shoots back.

"Would you just—?!"

"Stay, right, gotcha." He gives him a thumbs up, the universal sign of 'all good buddy', and grins until Derek's back disappears into the gloom. His smile fades almost immediately, because, no, this was  _not_  a good idea. Stiles, being left alone in the middle of the woods, in the instant-dark was not a good idea.

Being left alone when they both know that they're trapped in said woods by 'magic', is not a good idea.

He tries to stand up and get the hell out of here, but it doesn't go so well and he's starting to panic a little.

"Derek?"

Nothing.

"Sourwolf?"

More nothing and—oh holy shit, what if he  _was_  a hallucination, after all? Maybe Derek never was real, and all of this is some crazy dream thing.

_And you were there, and you, and you…_

“DEREK!” he yells, “So help me, if you don’t get your furry ass back here right this minute, i’m going to go to your loft and pee on everything you own!”

There’s an answering growl, and Stiles doesn’t know when, or how he’s learned this, but he knows what Derek’s growl sounds like.

And  _that_  isn’t Derek.

That, also, isn’t a witch.

“Oh, you’re… no, can you just—“ Stiles babbled, and wow, adrenaline works wonders on noodle-legs, because he’s already up and backing away from the thing. Which—haha—might have been a witch at some point, but not anymore. It was too… long. There’s too many limbs, maybe, and the face is kind of stretched like it started melting. Holy shit, that jaw—teeth— _toomanyteeth._

_ _

 

 

 

And it’s  _fast_.

“HOLY— _DEREK_!” Stiles shrieks, scrambling backwards until he gets his feet pointed in the right direction, and bolts. The thing’s making the weird gurgling-growl noise again, which is great for knowing how fucking close it was getting, but not great for listening for a response. Because no amount of Lacrosse training can defend him from the supernatural speed runner behind him. He’s going to die like this running for his life, in the dark—there’s the log again—all alone.   
  
Fuck, he really thought Derek was real. But the real Derek would have heard him, and saved him by now. Probably.

Teeth sink into his shoulder blade, and Stiles finally falls, screaming into the dirt and leaves. The witch thing hunches over him, clamping down on Stiles’ back even harder, and now he can’t even breathe, never mind scream some more. Screaming is pointless, anyway, because Derek’s not  _real_.

“I hate… this…” he rasps, tears pricking at his eyes from pain, maybe disappointment, too. This was so stupid, and gross, and he could just hear Derek grumbling about the ‘weak stupid human’. This was  _not_  at all how he imagined going out, not that he imagined that a lot—but the point was, he didn’t want to die, whining for Derek, with some kind of gurgling witch-thing on his back.

Wait…

The thing is shifting, removing its teeth, probably getting ready to bite his head off. Just a little more, and he can move.

Stiles shouts a triumphant, “HAH!”, elbows the thing in its long, dangly jaw, and flails around enough to get himself out from under all those limbs. It makes a weird sound, almost a whimper, and falls back way too easily.

 _Actually, that’s kind of a reoccurring theme here_ , Stiles thinks as he stumbles to his feet and backs away. Everything’s been too easy, from the moment he saw the blood, to Derek ripping his way through the witches, to elbowing some supernatural Thin-woman in the jaw and that really  _worked_?

That shouldn’t have worked.

“Okay, wait… wait wait wait…”

The witch whines again, and slowly gets to its feet, looking… looking kind of freaked out about this whole thing, too.

“No, hold on,” Stiles whispers, and holy shit, his back hurts, and he’s probably bruised everything, but there’s a thought here. He’s getting a thought.

Because the bite doesn’t really feel big enough to fit that jaw, or deep enough, and maybe the growl sounded wrong at first, but the noises it’s making right now sound a lot like… like a  _wolf_.

Stiles stares at it, trying to decide if he’s insane, or if it’s even worth the try, but if it is, then— “Oh shit… oh wait,  _Derek_?”

It gurgle-growls again, and starts towards him.

“Wait!” Stiles yelps, putting his hands up in front of him and backing away as far as he can. Well, until there’s a tree smashing up against the bite on his back, and everything goes black for a second there.

“Nnnghh… okay… just—what are you seeing?” he asks, and he really hopes he’s right about this. Please be right.

The thing makes a bunch of gross noises at him, jaw flopping around, too many limbs flailing, and god dammit, it’s too much. Stiles bursts out laughing.

He laughs himself right off his feet, and continues to laugh even when the scrape of bark against his open wound makes his eyes tear up. He’s still giggling when a shadow falls over him, and it’s  _not_  a witch.

“D-Derek,” he wheezes. “You know when I said your b-bark is… worse than your bite? I lied.”

“Stiles… shit. I could smell you, but…”

“Yeah,  _shit_  is about right,” Stiles agrees, and flashes a weak smile as Derek crouches down in front of him. He’s concerned, blatantly so, which is nice to see instead of his usual glare. He kind of looks wrecked, though, so, not as nice.

“I thought you were… you looked different,” Derek tries to explain, looking like he’d rather run away than actually apologize for biting him.

Oh no no no, he  _bit_  him!

Stiles jerks away from the tree, trying to turn his head far enough to see the bite. “Oh my god, i’m not going to turn into a werewolf now, am I?”

Derek’s hands close over his arms, and force him to be still. It’s not doing much for the impending panic attack, but there’s definitely something comforting about them. Not that Stiles will admit it to anyone, ever.  

What would he say, anyway? ‘ _Hey, Derek, your big, warm hands feel super-duper nice, I demand that you touch me more often._ ’

Actually… that doesn’t sound like a bad thing.

“Calm down and let me look at it,” Derek orders, easing Stiles’ body around to look at the wound. The combination of moon light and werewolf eyesight must do the trick, because a moment later, Derek lets out a long sigh of relief, and lets him go. “You’ll be fine, it’s not deep enough to change you.”

Stiles shifts a little, and glances over his shoulder. “Okay, but are we going to talk about the fact that you bit me at all?”

“I’d rather not,” Derek replies, making Unhappy Face #2. The one he brings out when emotional baggage is brought up.

“So we’re just going to pretend we didn’t just hallucinate that one or both of us were creepy things and you hunted me down to kill me or something?”

Derek’s eyebrows do the lifting thing. “Yes?”

“Soooo, what am I gonna tell everyone about where the hell i’ve been and who bit me?” Stiles asks, turning around with a wince. It still hurt, deep or not.

Derek huffs and looks away. “Don’t tell them anything.”

“Scott will smell your wolf spit all over me.”

“Tell him I—“ and whatever he was going to say tapers off about the same time Stiles notices his ears turning red. Because he’s embarrassed about—because, what? Oh my god.

Stiles snickers, and leans closer, trying not to sound  _too_  smug when he says, “Tell him you bit me… for fun?”

Derek snaps his head around and growls, “No!  _Jesus_ —Stiles, just… I didn’t mean to bite you, okay? If I had know it was you, i’d never—you know I would never—“

“Whoa, okay, firstly, calm down,” Stiles orders, patting at Derek’s still-naked chest. “I know that you’d never bite me on purpose, okay? Dude, you’ve been, like, the best about that. Even Scott asks me, sometimes, if I want the bite.” Stiles sighs at the look of horror that passes over Derek’s face. “He’s just worried, and he only asks when i’m, like, dying in his arms. It’s a best friends thing, i’d probably ask him, too, if it was the other way around.”

“Then why—“

Stiles holds a hand up to stop him. “Secondly, i’m not going to lie, this was some scary shit and i’m still not %100 sure if this is even real or not, or how I even got here, or if I’m actually in pain or if this is all in my head. But, hey, another wacky adventure with Derek Hale, and we’re alive, so it’s all good.”

Derek still doesn’t look like it’s all good.

“It is good, right?”

“… I guess.”

“So you won’t kill me if I compliment your chest right now?” Stiles asks, because he hasn’t removed his hand just yet and the mood, it needs lightening. “It looks very nice in the moonlight, just so you know. The witches did you a favor, dude.”

Derek jerks away from him, and turns around to hide said chest like a big, stupid kid. It gives Stiles a perfect view of the flush crawling up his neck, though, so he lets it go. Another time, another place, and he might push it.

Maybe. Probably.

Standing up and dusting himself off, Stiles decides that he’s done enough today, and that sleep he wanted hours ago? Yeah, he was going to need that soon.

In front of him, Derek grunts, “Let’s go,” and starts off through the trees once again, leaving Stiles to follow him at an awkward shuffle. His legs are actually doing pretty good, even when he’s bleeding from his back, and it feels  _safer_ , now. Like whatever spell that was lurking over them before had made the forest tens times creepier than normal. That, and Derek’s blushy ears  in front of him as they head back to the house are almost as comforting as those warm hands of his.

But, comfortable is boring, and Stiles doesn’t do boring.

Of course, the first thing he wants to say is probably rude, but all those threats aside, he already knows that Derek’s bark is worse than his bite

"So, I about those marshmallows you were shoving into your face that time…”

Derek growls, and it’s all good.


End file.
